


If This Be Error

by AMarguerite



Series: An Ever-Fixed Mark [1]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, High School, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, if you count Regency-era Eton as high school, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: “We have nothing in common,” said Mr. Darcy.“Do we not?” asked Wickham. “Why, we were intimate friends once, dear, dear Fitzwilliam. Bared hearts and wrists, did we not? I understand you better than anyone else alive."An outtake from "An Ever-Fixed Mark," as requested by Phyloxena, wherein George Wickham learns of Fitzwilliam Darcy's soulmark.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phyloxena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phyloxena/gifts).



The perils of soulmarks, thought Fitzwilliam Darcy, grumpily looking at the one that had appeared on his left wrist two weeks ago, were how horribly imprecise they were. It was not his idea of a good, or a well regulated system. There was so much still left up to chance. Why on earth have just _a_ name, instead of a full one, or a birthdate, or even a 'cf. p. 23 of the Baronetage'?

There came a knock on the door; Fitzwilliam hastily pulled down his sleeve and bade the visitor enter.

In came his father, looking thoughtful and vaguely melancholy. "My boy," said he, with a flicker of a smile, "how are you today?"

"Well, I thank you."

"Good. And your letter from your cousin Richard— nothing to distress you in that, I hope? Only good accounts of India?"

Fitzwilliam had a sudden mental image of Richard, sitting in some dusty tent in India, watching an elephant go by. It was the most vivid part of a letter that otherwise ineptly concealed homesickness, and the strain of having to shift for oneself in a foreign country, among strangers. But Richard's temperament was cheerful, and his manner resilient; Fitzwilliam had no doubt Richard would adjust to India as he had first adjusted to being in the army. He told his father as much, and even offered him the letter to read.

Mr. Darcy scanned the letter and said, with his usual gentleness, "You and Richard are confidantes; do you think he is happy in the army?"

"Sometimes," said Fitzwilliam, after a moment.

"Do you think he would have chosen the Army if circumstances were different?"

Fitzwilliam did not know what circumstances these were, but supposed Mr. Darcy meant 'if Richard had not been the second son' and said, cautiously, "I suppose not. But I thought he had not much choice in the matter. Richard said he was given his pair of colors as a sixteenth birthday present. He told me he did not mind; he did not fancy the church, and Lady Catherine would rather let Rosings Park to Cits than see a nephew of hers in the Navy." This suddenly struck him as something he should not have said about his mother's sister, even if Richard had been the one to say it originally, and promptly said, "I beg your pardon, sir, it—"

Mr. Darcy smiled. "It is quite alright; I know _you_ did not say such a thing. And I suppose the circumstances made politics a dangerous profession. No, I see it was only the Army for Richard. Poor boy. I hesitate to speak ill of your mother's family, but I do not think they treated Richard as they ought. He cannot help who he is, or how he was born. I hope they treat him well, in the regiment?"

Fitzwilliam had the impression he was missing something, but was too embarrassed to admit ignorance. Ever since the appearance of his soulmark, his father had been treating Fitzwilliam as an equal, as an adult whose opinions were valuable, and whose conversation was worth having. Fitzwilliam would rather have walked down Bond Street in petticoats than disappoint his father's trust, even through ignorance. He said, cautiously, "I think so; he is friendly with the other ensigns, and his infantry regiment seems pleasant enough. The colonel of the regiment, Colonel Brandon, is a friend of Uncle Matlock’s. Richard likes him, and likes working as his aide-de-campe; he does not like being shot at, as much, though he says he is used to it.”

Mr. Darcy smiled distantly and said, after a moment, “No, I think the army is not a fit— for George I mean. You and George are confidantes as well?”

“Yes?” Fitzwilliam was unsure to what these questions tended. He was reserved by nature and had only a few confidantes; outside of his family circle, there was only Charles Bingley, really. Perhaps his father disapproved of Bingley, because Mr. Bingley owned mills up north, and was too well-bred to come out and say it? But Wickham was the son of a steward, so there could be no real objection—

“I think the church perhaps,” said Mr. Darcy, momentarily pausing the anxious run of Fitzwilliam’s thoughts. “Depending on the parish, the church may be a very good fit for George indeed. He may even be popular, if he is in a liberal enough part of the country. Do you not think so, my boy?”

Caught a little off guard, Fitzwilliam said, “Oh I— I had not thought about it. He has never mentioned any particular preference towards a profession.”

“He speaks so well,” said Mr. Darcy, “I think he will like making sermons. His essays are always so good.”

Fitzwilliam felt a little disgruntled at this. He swotted away horribly at his essays. George scribbled his an hour before they were due and got the same, if not better marks from the masters.

Mr. Darcy had been sitting at Fitzwilliam’s dressing table (Fitzwilliam was still at his desk) and now stood, handing back the letter and saying, “Be kind to George Wickham, will you? He has not any of your advantages.”

“Of course.”

“And society will not treat him as kindly as it treats you,” continued on Mr. Darcy. “You must always bear in mind, my boy, that you are a Darcy, and you must behave better than most of society. You _are_ better than most of society.”

Fitzwilliam could no more forget he was a Darcy than he could forget how to walk. This did not seem worth saying, however, so instead he said, "Yes, sir. George is my friend."

"That pleases me greatly," said Mr. Darcy, smiling. "Mr. Wickham is an excellent man, and a good friend. It is a great joy to see our friendship continue in the next generation. I hope you will trust George, and look out for him, if he trusts you enough to confide in you." 

Again, Fitzwilliam had the sense that he was missing something, but did not like to admit it. The silence was beginning to turn awkward. Fitzwilliam expressed an inclination to ask George Wickham to go fishing with him, more to please his father than any true desire to do so. This request was granted, and Fitzwilliam soon found himself very cozily bored on the bank. George, usually ceaseless in his noise, was brooding and out of humor.

Fitzwilliam’s thoughts ran tidily around the subject that chiefly concerned him—the appearance of his soulmark and what it meant— advice his mother had given him, before she died; his eldest cousin Stornoway’s recent engagement to Lady Marjorie Spencer; the happiness of his own parents. George stirred beside him in the grass and said, “I suppose you had a good birthday, down at Matlock.”

It had been unexceptional, except for the appearance of his mark, but Fitzwilliam agreed that he had, and politely asked after George’s own.

“Middling,” said George. “And what a prosy fellow you are, sending me a _dictionary_ for my birthday.”

“Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary_ is one of the most important works of our era,” said Fitzwilliam. His father had often said so, and Fitzwilliam saw no reason to disagree with him.

“Is it,” said George, flatly. “But even without your creative gift giving, it would have been rubbish anyhow. I must have the worst soulmark in England.” He considered this. “Well, perhaps not worse than your cousin Richard’s. His was so bad his people sent him off to the East Indies, first chance they got.”

Fitzwilliam said nothing to this; Richard had not chosen to show his mark to anyone, as far as Fitzwilliam knew, and only mentioned that his sixteenth birthday “could have gone better." The adults were all very silent on the subject. Fitzwilliam could only imagine that Richard had the name of some high-born French lady, famous for either being a Jacobin or a Bonapartist on his wrist, and had been sent into the Army to remember that the French were the enemy.

“I don’t think we should talk about that,” said Fitzwilliam, at length.

“Why not?” asked George, defiantly.

“It is not appropriate.”

George looked heavenward. “Not appropriate— Fitzwilliam, you can be the most unbearable prig sometimes. Did you even show your father your soulmark when it appeared, or did you give out that you sprained your wrist, like Lawrence Spencer?”

The Right Honorable Lawrence Spencer had been one of the gods of the fifth form when they were first at Eton, whose fall from grace had been as epic to them as anything conceived of by Milton. Lawrence had turned sixteen Michaelmas term, and gave out that he’d sprained his wrist, so as to keep his soulmark in bandages. Someone had grown suspicious about two months into this charade, and torn off the bandages in the baths. Great was the outcry when the Etonians all learnt Lawrence’s soulmate was someone named ‘Thomas.’ Every kindness he had shewn the younger boys was looked upon with great suspicion, the house had been divided on this topic as thoroughly as Gaul by Caesar, and Lawrence had decided he’d had all the education he needed, and joined the Horse Guards at Christmas.

“I showed my father,” said Fitzwilliam, uncomfortably. All the other adults had rather pointedly ignored the fact that his sixteenth birthday meant anything other than the fact that he was sixteen. He had no real understanding why this was, but felt vaguely ashamed anyhow. “Did you show your parents yours?”

“Yes.” George tore a handful of grass out of the bank and said, abruptly, “D’you want to see mine?”

“What?”

“D’you want to see my mark?” repeated George, defiantly. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

Fitzwilliam could not think of anything he wanted _less_. But George was his friend, and one of the three friends he trusted enough to confide in, and his father had said he must behave well if Wickham chose to confide in him—and damn and blast, George Wickham was already pushing up his sleeve. Fitzwilliam was entirely without the social resources to extract himself from such a scenario; all he could think to do was grudgingly push up his own sleeve and display the mark on his own wrist.

George Wickham’s mark read ‘George.’

It seemed rather solipsistic.

George looked at Fitzwilliam’s wrist with bitterest envy.

“Why is it,” George asked, after a moment, “that everything is so easy for you?”

“Easy?” Fitzwilliam was thoroughly puzzled by this characterization of himself and his life.

George scoffed at him, “With how grave and uncomfortable you were about it, I thought you’d have ‘George’ on your wrist, too!” He looked smug. “Not that I would have rejected you out of hand if you had. I _am_ a devilishly handsome fellow. It would have been quite natural for you to be in love with me.”

Fitzwilliam seriously considered pushing him into the trout stream.

“I have every cause to be throwing myself over the scenery like what's his name with the skull, but why on earth are _you_ blue-deviled?”

“Because it means I could be easily fooled,” said Darcy. “My mother always went on about it. One of _her_ school friends was fooled that way. She had a common name and a common soulmark, and was taken in by a fortune hunter. She didn’t realize they weren’t a match until after he’d spent half her dowry.”

“One of your mother’s friends? I’m surprised her people didn’t interfere.”

Darcy thought he felt a tug and reeled in his line to find—nothing. He cast again. “They would have, had they known. But the lady eloped to Gretna Green.”

“Hm,” said George. “Bad luck for her, I suppose. Her people must have paid a great deal for a divorce.”

“Some five thousand pounds, I think.”

George gave an appreciative whistle, which was not precisely the reaction Fitzwilliam had wanted. Grave silence would have been far better.

“For my part,” George said, after a moment, “I think my mark must be a nickname. I can’t for a moment think myself an invert. People knew about Lawrence Spencer before he was even jumped in the bogs and got the bandages on his wrist torn off. _I_ certainly knew.”

“That seems like nonsense to me,” said Fitzwilliam. “You cannot tell the gender of a person’s soulmate by looking at them.”

George snorted and cast his line again. “Shows what you know! You don’t even notice when the maids set their caps at you. And there— that’s proof enough I’m not an invert. I always notice when they flirt with me. I bet I could have any maid at Pemberley I want.”

Fitzwilliam often heard boasts like this at Eton and been appalled. He was mortified to hear it at _Pemberley ,_  which was, in his mind, the dwelling place of propriety. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why?”

The reasons why were so clear to Darcy he had some trouble articulating them. He ended up with a lame, “None of them are named ‘George.’”

George laughed at him. “They do wrap you up in cotton, don’t they? You needn’t be someone’s soulmate to have them.”

“You needn’t, but you should.” Fitzwilliam was growing increasingly uncomfortable. He hastily changed the subject. “Perhaps the French master is right, and a soulmark only refers to the person who will be most significant in your life. Maybe your mark refers to my father?”

“I shall make you a charming stepmother,” said George, batting his eyelashes at Fitzwilliam, who nearly gave into the overwhelming temptation to push him into the trout stream. But he didn't and George continued on, “Perhaps this means we shall be brothers and I will marry Georgiana.”

“She is _four._ ”

“Not forever. And until then, the stillroom maid—”

“You are not going after my sister—  _who is four—_ while pursuing the stillroom maid.”

“Why not? I must have something— rather some _one_ to do while waiting for little George to grow up.”

Fitzwilliam hoped, rather than believed this was all just talk. At sixteen, however, one is not apt to press or question one's friends. One stews in discomfort.

Wickham seemed to realize he crossed a line, and nudged Fitzwilliam's shoulder with his own. "Oh come off it and cry friends with me. You know I cannot resist teasing you a little when you are so formal."

The talk of seducing the staff had struck Fitzwilliam as more serious than teasing, but he had told his father he would be kind if George chose to confide in him. He hoped he was not in error when he held out his left hand to George and agreed, "Friends."


End file.
